I once positioned my outpost on Earth –
at the time, in a forest, within earshot
of owls and a lake’s short waves –
to be the center of all communication
beaming in from everywhere, screaming
out to all the rounded, warped corners
of this universe. I was hoping to fool
that alien sense that’s native to many,
that I was actually practically cut off
from the prime gist of being alive.

So rather than scanning for more
koans-on-transcendence, or a how-to
to convince the punk of a chipmunk
I imagined standing in for my mind
that this felt insignificance was
insignificant, thereby skirting
the issue that acted as my Everest –
because it was there, it was always there –

I pitched a little white tent in a holler,
with vents in the canvas to let in, let out
my antennae, the requisite wires,
the million telekinetic messages
I’d be managing by the minute,
like some eighty-armed operator
devotedly plugging in, plugging out,
the supple joint expressing a life to Life.

And when all systems were finally go,
and after I flicked the little switch (a
Venetian-like light flooding the moon
of my face), the first words in were
whispers of how old leaves left alone
will crackle for no particular reason.

Then the slow creaking of tall beeches
followed by a pulsing, silent swooshing –
as if I were holding my personal shell
to my own singular ear, which, naturally,
per my long-suffering custom, I was.